


BAMF John

by rejectbaboon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John Watson, BAMF Mummy Holmes, BAMF Watsons, Filthy, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Holmes Family, John Is So Done, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John has muscles, John is a Bit Not Good, John is a Very Good Doctor, John speaks foreign languages, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Possessive John, Pre-Slash, Protective John Watson, Russian, Rutting, Sexy John, Sexy Sherlock, Shapeshifting, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Slow Burn, Surprised Mycroft Holmes, Violence, Virgin Sherlock, Were-Creatures, creature!John, seductive john watson, very nice muscles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2018-10-31 09:45:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10896744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rejectbaboon/pseuds/rejectbaboon
Summary: We need more BAMF John Watson. These are some one shots and drabbles.





	1. Pinky Promises

Sherlock and Lestrade are near the body, Greg listening attentively and nodding from time to time while Sherlock explains how the killer managed to murder the poor young man laying at their feet. John's chosen to look away from the body - out of respect not squeamishness - and is instead staying a couple of feet back, arms behind his back and carefully looking out for Sherlock.

Something feels out of place. The building is abandoned and derelict, and the murderer's spread evidence everywhere. Most of Greg's team is spread around, with only Anderson, Donovan and Anderson's assitant, a young boy named Mark, in the room with John, Sherlock and Greg.

Ever since Shelock's come back, Anderson's been behaving almost like a fan boy, and Sherlock doesn't want to admit it to John but the latter knows the detective is almost enjoying it. Sure, he still complains of Anderson's stupidity most of the times but not as much as before.

Suddenly there's a loud bang, startling John out of his musings and he reacts before his mind could comprehend what's happening.

John lunges across the room and twines his hand around the one holding the pistol, while pushing Sherlock behind and away with his other. The murderer shouts in agony but doesn't dessist and the two begin grappling around in a brutal dance of tight grasps, twists and punches.

Lestrade and Anderson shout and John can hear young Mark's worried cries for help but Sherlock is suspiciously silent and John's worried the murderer shot him. He needs to turn and check on the detective, but the killer is built like a beast and willful.

'John, move away!!!!' Greg shouts, but John can't focus on his words and he's angry.

The killer makes to punch him but John deflects with his left arm, rapidly moving in to strike a cutting jab to the man's throat with his left hand when the other's off balance. The man's breath cuts off and he bends down to cough, grasping at his throat. John grips his shoulders to bring him towards him and delivers two powerful knees to his abdomen and an elbow to the man's spine, bringing him down.

Gasping form efort he kneels on the killer's back, knee on his hands to restrain him and looks up. Greg and Donovan have their guns pointed at the murderer, but gawping at John. Mark is somewhere behind them watching John in awe but John ignores all of this and looks around for Sherlock. The latter is leaning on the far wall near the entrance, watching the doctor with a strange expression on his face.

Their gazing is interrupted by Greg who shoves his gun back in it's holder and handcuffs the struggling murderer.

'Blimey, mate! What the bloody hell was that?' 

John coughs, embarassed but shrugs. The scum tried to shoot Sherlock, John doesn't need to explain himself, although he knows he's contaminated the evidence around the room, including some..parts of the body which ended up being kicked about.

Greg and Donovan push the man out of the room, Donovan throwing him one last look which John doesn't understand, and Mark and Anderson still don't say anything as John bats at his clothes uselessly and makes his way over to Sherlock.

'John, was is really necessary to push me down? Now I have to dry clean it! We're stopping at Johnson's on the way.' Sherlock scowls, pointing at his bloodied and dusty cloak form where he fell on the body when John pushed him.

'Bloody sorry, I suppose I should have let you get shot, then your coat wouldn't have needed dry cleaning!'

Sherlock sighs before swirls around and stalks out of the room, John in his wake, shouting behind.

'Anderson, email me the results!' 

In the cab, after they've left Sherlock's cloak at Johnson's Dry Cleaning and have picked some thai takeaway, Sherlock's pinky touches John's on the seat between them, and he thanks John quietly. They ride home with small smiles on their faces and pinkies entwined.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade and the gang visit 221B right when John is in the middle of something...

Lestrade sighs, rubbing his forehead tiredly as he waits for Sherlock to stop ranting and unlock the front door to 221B. He doesn't know what he's done to deserve this punishment and he's quite tempted to leave. But his boss would have his head without the paperwork Sherlock's stolen. Not to mention Donovan and Anderson's winging for having brought them all the way here.

Sigh.

' - no wonder the criminal population seems to be flourishing if the police have nothing better to do than kidnapping me.' 

The consultive pain in the arse grunts as he finally pushes the door open and Lestrade was just about to open his mouth when it hits them and they all stop in their tracks.

Loud music is playing from upstairs, so loud it seems like the walls are pulsing from the power of the bass.

Lestrade guesses by the perplexed expression on Sherlock's face that this is quite unexpected. Clearly, John's playing this music and to be honest Lestrade wouldn't have thought John to be the type to listen to Rammestein. Lestrade himself only recognizes the band because of his angry teenage daughter, and the less said about that the better..

Coming to a silent decision, they all start climbing the stairs to see what's going on. 

Sherlock's the first to push the door to the living room open naturally, so Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson stumble into him when he stops abruptly.

'Oi, move over' mutters Anderson, and Donovan who cocked her head over Sherlock's shoulder shushes him dazedly.

Lestrade pushes Sherlock gently to advance in the room, and they all stop and gape once properly inside.

The music is even louder in here, bouncing off the walls and Lestrade can also feel it ricochet in his sternum. The sofa, armchairs and coffee table have been pushed and aligned by the wall, so there's some open space in the middle of the room. And John's on the floor, doing push-ups. Naked, one armed pushu-ps.

He's only clad in a pair of grey shorts which do nothing to hide..anything. Lestrade almost wants to turn away from the indecent sight in front of him. He feels wrong to admit to himself he's probably enjoying the sight in front of him as much as Sherlock.

The doctor does a great job of hiding his body underneath all those jumpers, but his body is ripped. Strong back muscles swell and shift sinuously like a tiger's muscles underneath his fur. One arm's squeezed in a tight fist at his back, while his right pushes him up and down. The music is too loud to hear anything but he looks like he's grunting and breathing deeply in time with his effort.

Lestrade looks around to catch the others' expressions and indeed, they all look flabergasted. The detective is a bit disturbed by Donovan'ts expression and Anderson looks a bit green around the gills. If he had to guess, Lestrade would say he's thinking about how lucky he is that John has enough self-control. All those insults..and all this time, John could've probably picked him up and thrown him one-handed.

Sherlock's the best though, and Lestrade's really glad he decided to come here tonight. His face is priceless, gone is his impassive mask, and he's doing nothing to hide his enjoyment of the view. It's probably only Lestrade thinking, but he's almost certain the detective's shifted his coat to hide his front..

The song changes to a song Lestrade doesn't recognize and doesn't care about because John suddenly changes to triple claps push ups. 

'What the hell...' 

John's form is perfect, he's pushing himself up and makes it look like it's the easiest exercise in the world. Clapping once is hard, Lestrade remembers from his police training days, but three?!

Ten reps, twenty, followed by some back clap push ups later, John finally stands up and grabs a towel from the arm of the sofa.

Wiping the back of his neck, John turns around and stops at the sight of them. The doctor purses his lips and seems a bit embarassed. Lestrade doesn't think he needs to be, not with a body like that.

A look at Sherlock from the corner of his eyes shows an expression Lestrade's never seen before on the young man's face.

The DI hopes this will finally push the two idiots in the right direction.

Speaking of direction, John's turned and turned the music off on his laptop, as well as the floating speakers. The DI's heard John complain about them before, apparently Sherlock's brought them in for an experiment. Looks like they're good for something.

John coughs and scratches at the back of his neck, arm muscles bulging as he does so. His abs tremble in time with this breath, and shorts seems to have slipped enough for his V cut to be seen.

'Uhh, how long have you guys been there?'

Sherlock opens his mouth almost absent midedly and his words drip off his tongue like melted honey.

'Long enough...'

His eyes are scrolling up and down John's body, Lestrade can't tell much obviously but he gets the gist of what's going through the man's mind. Lestrade's almost tempted to look closer at John's shoulder wound but he can always ask John at the pub later.

Lestrade decides to cut their visit short immediatly. Those two need to be alone and sort things out, and this seems like the best time for it. 

'Right, Sherlock I expect those papers to be on my desk tomorrow at 9am sharp, or I'll make sure you don't get another case for three weeks. Donovan, Anderson, let's go.'

Lestrade turns around just in time to widen his eyes purposefully at Donovan who looks like she might protest, but she catches on and turns towards the stairs, Anderson following hurriedly and without protest.

They're at the front door when a thump and an unmistakable, cut-off grunt echoes upstairs.


	3. Chapter 3

Slammng the door to the cab, John shifts next to Sherlock, rolling his shoulders and rubbing his fingers together in that manner he has when stressed. He tries not to react to Sherlock's irritated sigh next to him, lest he starts whaling on the consulting detective right there in the bloody cab.

John's had an exhausting day. From children spewing on his shoes, Mary the pervy nurse with her incessant flirting and Sarah's disapproving stare for having been late again, he couldn't have been more glad to step into 221B.

And then hurricane Sherlock Holmes happened, and really, one would assume he'd be used to this by now. Well, sur-bloody-prise, he isn't. John would like to see anyone's reaction to finding their flatmate's emptied a new jar of strawberry jam in order to grow mould cultures inside.

Finally he puffs and opens his mouth. 'You even washed the jar. Figures, the only time you ever bother to wash something is when you bin an entire, perfectly fine jar of jam to grow _bloody_ mould cultures! Unbelievable!'

Sherlock's irritate groan covers up the cabbie's voice coming from the front seat but John only pays the latter a fraction of a second of attention as he is too preoccupied with fuming at Sherlock.

'You are being utterly unreasonable today John but of course, I could tell this morning by your choice of clothing. You always wear that ridiculous jumper when you're having a bad day, have you noticed?'

John snorts angrily. 'Oh really, tell me more Oh Oracle of the East. Are you able to predict the future, now -'

' - Hardly, you're being unreasonably dim today, John'. Sherlock scoffs, interrupting John, but the latter raises his voice to cover the detective's words.

' -because if so, tell me, am I going to kill you by the end of the night? I'd say almost definitely!' 

**'OI, PLONKERS!'**

The cabbie's voice cuts through their argument and they both turn around from where they were bent towards each other, to scowl at the cabbie. 

They both ask. 'What?!' 

**'Where ya goin'? You two're doin' my bloody nut in.'**

Sherlock spits the address to the Diogenes Club and John purses his lips, raising his eyes heavenwards. 

Mycroft. Should've known. 

This should be good, note the sarcasm. 

**  
Not even half an hour later, John's had enough. Mycroft and Sherlock are engaged in their favorite game of one-upping one another and speaking about John as if he isn't in the room. 

****

****

**_'-your hideous tie doesn't conceal the three muffins you've had in the twenty minutes you were waiting for us to arrive. And leave John out of this, or so help me..'_ **

Mycroft narrows his eyes from behind his mahogany vintage desk before firing back. **_' I see, having a little domestic are you? Think, brother mine, this could be your chance to conduct your...experiments while giving John some much needed time away, hmm. While successful, your cases have been quite mild, shall we say, as of last, and I imagine a man of action such as John would enjoy what I have in mind for him. '_**

John's face turns darker and darker the more he listens from behind Sherlock, who's slumped in a posh armchair, a picture of indifference. Only the tapping of his fingers give away his fury at Mycroft's supercilious words. 

**'Unbelievable.'**

John's stiff proouncement cuts the brothers' argument short, and they both turn their icy eyes to regard him. 

His posture had gradually turned more and more reminiscent of 'Captain Watson' and as it is, he gives them a stern look, shoulders squared at parade's rest. 

**' I have no desire to play the role of furniture in your drama. That piece of unecessary shite',** he inclines his chin towards Mycroft's desk, **'should be enough, I believe.'**

The two brothers blink at him in their Holmesian way they do when entirely astonished. 

He gives short laugh, satisfaction swirling around in his gut. 

**'I'm also not a toy you two children can argue over. The bloody cheek, talking about me as if I'm not even here, and not only that but doing it in Russian too, solely for the purpose of showing off. You've not even mentioned what you want me to do for you Mycroft, so there's no need to discuss it in a foreign language so that I can't understand, when it clearly involves me! By the by, I'm not doing shite for you, anyway so you can take your proposition and shove it up your arse.'**

Mycroft's face is priceless, almost gaping. John's never before seen his control slip so spectacularly. Sherlock seems awed, face undescribable to John, though he thinks he can detect the slightest flickering of pride and dark satisfaction in his eyes.. 

John's turned around, making for the door before he turns his head slightly to throw some more words over his shoulder. Alright, he's entitled to some bloody showing off. 

**'And Mycroft. Not even the queen and her horses could make me leave 221B, even if we never got a case again and I was forced to watch Sherlock grow mould cultures all day for the rest of my life.'**

The door slams behind and John swaggers through the corridor, front entrance and out the Diogenes Club, an entirely too pleased smirk on his face. 

He can hear their stunned silence from all the way outside the building as he's waiting for a cab. Sherlock can find his own bloody way home, John's going to the pub with Lestrade. He's already taking his phone out to text the DI. 

Lestrade's going to enjoy the hell out of hearing John's taken the Holmes brothers down a peg or two, in Russian. 


	4. Chapter 4

It transpires that the following year after that disastruos affair with Mary, Sherlock and his family, John and Sherlock are once again invited to spend Christmas with the rest of the Holmes family. The doctor had been unsure and uneasy at first, but caved in the face of Violet's eyes, which were as cunning and sharp but also capable of inflicting their will upon their 'oponnents' as Sherlock's.

And so it happens that they were now at the Holmes Manor in Sussex. A wonderful place which John would enjoy more, were it not for the terrible memories from last winter.

Water under the bridge now anyway. His and Sherlock's friendship has been slowly but surely healing under both of their tender care. It feels like decades have passed and so much has happened, but at their core, they haven't change. No, actually they have. But for the better.

Sherlock's more patient with people now, perhaps has learned to pay attention to 'sentiment' too, rather than only relying on his logic. John's started to relax and experiment, in a matter of speaking. It's mostly been in his mind..Imagining what could be. Regretting what could've been. Imagining what could happen.

He's been less angry, that's for sure.

They've only arrived yesterday evening, and what a commotion that had been, thank God it is over. John loves Mummy and Daddy Holmes, that's for sure, but he'd been a tad embarrased at the fanfare and just a bit uncomfortable from tiny questions in their eyes, which he could see. 

Glad they didn't ask any questions, though Violet did caress his cheek and shake her head in an alarming way at one point, but Siger, thank God, saw John's alarmed face behind her and coughed once, prompting Mummy to let go. Sherlock, damn him, had already bounded up inside, insufferable prick that he is, and left John to deal with the luggage as usual.

The day went by fast in a constant buzz, and John would have appreciated being able to enjoy a bit more quiet, however the sleep had been good the night before, and he'd enjoyed a brisk walk around the beautiful Manor grounds before it was time for tea.

It was starting to get dark and cold by the time Mummy started giving Siger, Sherlock and John orders to lay out the table. They all complied with no protest, even Sherlock to John's surprise, but then again he'd heard from Mycroft of Mummy's hold over both their sons. A wonderful woman ideed.

Soon people come knocking at the door, and John starts to feel a bit alarmed not only by the number of Holmeses, but also by the sickening shade of pale Sherlock's face takes by the time they're all seated.

John's luckily been able to grab the seat in front of him, and he's quietly chewing on his roast turkey, listening to conversations around the dining table but also keeping an eye on Sherlock.

From the looks and sounds of it, John understand why Sherlock and Mycroft hate the 'Christmas dinners'. It seems like the Holmes cousins aren't very nice at all. Not very nice no, they remind John of the wanker, Sebastian Wilkes. 

Lisa is very pretty and a couple of year past, John might have readily admired and tried to charm her, but her behaviour is sickening. Come to think of it, it reminds him a bit of Irene Adler, only a cheaper, unrefined version.

Without thinking, his foot moves by his own accord underneath the table and nudges Sherlock's. The detective looks up from his peas, stunned for a fraction of a second, before his face goes back to its mask, only his eyes becoming warmer as they smile at John.

John gives him a warm smile before turning back to his meal, foot tingling where it's touching Sherlock's.

Some time passes and soon desert is served, which is delicios, John quite enjoys the hot cherry pie with vanilla icecream and chocolate syrup, which he sees Sherlock steal a couple of bites of when he thinks John and everyone else's not looking. Inevitably, the other shoe drops.

Gerrick, and John's so far not been able to say it about any of the Holmses, but Gerrick truly is ugly. All slick like Sebastian, hair gelled back, expensive posh suit, obnoxious perfume and yellow cracking teeth. Not very appealing at all. He's even more ugly inside.

'- come Lisa, don't make Sherly uncomfortable. You know he doesn't like joining the 'flock' like everyone else. We mustn't ask him about relationships, poor duck'. Gerrick's voice is also really annoying, and hang on, did he just call Sherlock an ugly duckling. Across the table, Sherlock's face is impassive and sculpted in ice, resolutely not staring at anyone and anything except the last dregs of chocolate mousse he's very intently spooning off his bowl.

John looks around the table, stunned, but to his consternation Siger, his brother Roger and his wife, Hannah are deep in conversation. Mummy is bustling around, carrying piles of dishes to the kitchen.

John know this has just started, so he nudges Sherlock's foot again more firmly, clearing his throat. Sherlock twitches his foot away and refuses to lift his eyes, making John start to scowl.

Lisa lets loose a couple of giggles, grating on John's nerves, and Gerrick unfortunately, especially for himself he'll soon come to know, keeps on flapping his mouth.

John's had enough. He smiles a thin, polite but sharp smile as he takes a sip of his wine, clearing his throat a little. He feels Sherlock's alarmed eyes on his face. Gerrick raises a questioning eyebrow at John, Lisa watching on.

'Well, seems like I'm finally meeting another Holmes who doesn't like to join the 'flock', so to speak.' 

It seems to John that people around the table were actually paying attention, as he hears a small gasp from Hannah and feels everyone's eyes on him for a couple of seconds before conversation picks up again, more quietly this time. He's sure they're paying attention now.

Nothing compares to the attention he's getting from Sherlock. The detective seems a bit irritated, embarrased and a bit in awe of John, the doctor thinks. John licks his lips, taking another sip of wine and looks at Gerrick, whose smile's just a tad more tense than before.

'Oh?', he asks seemingly politely, 'what do you mean to suggest?'

John's eyes glint at the perfect opportunity and he smirks, 'I'm sure you can _deduce_.'

He's alluding of course, to Gerrick's dissimilarity to the rest of the Holmes. Not the sharpest crayon in the box, bit not like the rest of the Holmes flock.

Sherlock's eyes glint from across the table, and John's heartbeat's strange all of a sudden. Silly, it's almost like he's back in high school. A thought suddenly strikes John, and he can't say for sure he'd ever whished that before, but he whishes Mycroft was here to put Gerrick in his place so John could focus on..on enjoying his meal, yes.

Mycroft had sent his apologies, quoting work and a terrible business with Iran, forcing Sherlock's hand, and consequently John's, to attend the Christmas do instead.

Soon Gerrick changes the subject, blathering on about their teenage years and how he was into sports and other such nonsense. 

'Remember that time Lisa, when poor Sherlock took that rugby ball to his face?', John's eyes narrow as he calmly sips his wine and he makes a decision, lowering himself a bit in his seat so he can reach out and squeeze Sherlock's knee in between his thighs. 

Sherlock's gasp is lost in the hubbub and covered by Lisa's giggles, which have gotten progresively louder as the evening wore on.

'So, Gerrick, you used to play sports?' John suddenly asks, overiding the prick's attempt at digging into Sherlock.

Gerrick smiles condescendingly, 'Well, there wasn't much we Holmes weren't good at, barring some exceptions,' he pauses slightly to glance at Sherlock meaningfully, 'I was quite enamoured with rugby and-'

Yeah, John doubts this prick knows anything about rugby, so he cuts him off. 'Oh, I imagine you'd fit the position of a **backbiter** ', and John can't stop his smile as Gerrick nods pompously, giving a self-important little smile,' I myself used to be a forwards 1&3 prop. Liked using my body as a battering ram to attack the opposition. Quite fun.' 

John smirks and leans back in his chair, having bent a bit towards Gerrick as if conspiratorially. For his part, Sherlock's still watching John however a bit puzzled this time, but his eyes gleam and flicker like watching a match, back and forth between John and his asshole of a cousin. John will explain this one later to Sherlock, but basically there's no such thing as a 'backbiter' in rugby. Sounds like it could be though, and it shows Gerrick's talking out of his arse. 

A phantom of a laugh from his left makes John glance at Siger, who'se apparently head the whole thing and must know a thing or two about rugby. Mummy and Hannah are in the kitchen and Roger's gone outside for a cheeky fag. Lisa's face is scrunched up, looking constipated but other than laughing at Gerrick's blatherings, she's not contributing much to the table.

John feels his cheeks flush, probably because of the wine, or because of Sherlock who's shifted his other leg to squeeze John's left in between _his_ thighs now, pulsing rhytmically. John gulps and looks around for more wine.

Luckily, it seems like it's all coming to a finish soon, and before John knows it's all flown by, Gerrick and Lisa finally moving on to other subjects and Facebook stalking apparently, and John's never thought to see a Holmes on Facebook other than for a case. John and Sherlock have somehow slipped in their own little bubble, mock bickering about cleaning the flat and the state of the kithen as Sherlock's forgotten an experiment on the table back home, when Gerrick flaps his tongue again and makes everyone stop in their traps.

John slowly turns his head, giving the prick a shapr death glare from across the table. 'Excuse me?'

Gerrick faltersa bit under everyoe's attention but he hasn't caught on and gives a little laugh, ignoring Lisa's touch on his arm and wary look.

'Heard you talking about your kitchen, this little freak here used to dissect dead birds when we were at uni. Shared a dorm, the numbers of times he'd bring roadkill and such in, really, no wonder no one liked him - '

John hums and purses his lips, fingers twitching around his mouth, supporting his face, tapping his cheek in that way he does without realizing when irritated, the more he listens to the bastard go on.

He finally clears his throat, cutting Gerrick short, and offering a thin, freezing smile. He's aware of everyone's eyes on him, and of Sherlock's tension, who's hurt he can basically _taste_ from across the table. John hates it, absolutely HATES it when people call Sherlock a freak.

'Listen, you little prick. I've had to listen to you yap like the dog you are and mouth off about my partner all night, but that's enough, do you understand?', John's voice had turned firm and stern, what his friends used to call his 'Captain Watson' voice. He pauses briefly, leaning slightly forward towards Gerrick who looks insulted and stunned to be addressed in such a way.

'Don't look at me like that, you tiny piece of shit.' John's aware this is really, really inapproptiate at the Christmas dinner table, but he's not entirely sure the way Sherlock's squeezing his hand is to stop him or encourage him and he's to incenssed to stop. He's donned his captain persona and that little prick needs a dressing down and proper training.

'If I ever so much as see you look at, or speak about Sherlock again in any way or form, I'm going to find you and show you what _I_ used to dissect at uni, which was worse and also much more interesting than roadkill, hmm. Sometimes they were still twitching.'

Clearing his throat, John leans back in his chair, casual as you like, left hand still clasped in Sherlock's, whose dark, dilated eyes seem to bring John's blood to boil underneath his skin. The silence follows on for a couple of seconds, and the soldier's coming down from his high, smiling a bit apologetically at the other people at the table. It seems though, he shouldn't have bothered, as pretty much almsot everyone bar a pasty, sickly Gerrick and a quiet Lisa, have tiny smiles at the corner of their mouths, sipping their drinks almost peacefully.

Mummy Holmes's eyes have turned a bit teary, and she smiles broadly at John, making him blush and smile back proudly.

No one's going to insult Sherlock in front of him again, not after all they've been through and, and..

Sherlock's legs disappear suddenly, leaving John's cold in their absence, and he clears his throat as he rises from his seat, gesturing to the stairs with his chin. John nods and they make their excuses.

The trip upstairs is quiet, and it's still quiet once they've entered Sherlock's childhood room. They stop and stare at one another, and John can see Sherlock's rapid pulse in his pale, long neck, right underneath that perfect beauty mark. John's own pulse is erratic. Their eyes are locked on each others', flickering with hundreds of unecessary words, reading each other silently.

Their heads come together at once, and their lips join together perfectly. One of them moans and soon the only sounds in the room are that of their rapid breaths and their slick mouths and tongues coming together desperately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backbiter - nothing to do with rugby, it means: One who spreads rumors of another, usually going behind their back or stabbing them in the back.
> 
> 1 & 3 Prop
> 
> Along with the hooker, the loose-head and tight-head props make up what is known as the front row, which refers to their position in the scrum. (taken from http://www.rugbyfootballhistory.com/positions.html)
> 
> To be successful, both props must be extremely strong in the neck, shoulders, upper body and legs, and they should relish head-to-head competition.
> 
> While stopping their side of the scrum from moving backwards, the props also support the hooker's body weight, allowing him or her to see and strike the ball when it is put into the scrum. In the lineout, props should be able to support or lift the jumper to prevent the opposition winning the ball.
> 
> Away from set pieces, props help to secure the ball when a player has been tackled, so it helps if they can combine their power with a degree of mobility. You’ll also often see them used as battering rams in attack, receiving short passes after a ruck or maul and hitting the opposition defence at pace in an attempt to occupy the defenders and make space for their own backs.


	5. Chapter 5

John had always been, in people's eyes, the more tempered child when compared to Harry. 

Truth is, not a lot of people know John as well as they'd like, his closest friends and family included. Whereas Harry was loud and brash, more bark than bite so to say, John was quiet when wronged, until just before he crushed their bones. 

He tended to mask that side of himself, from early on as taught by his mother and her side of the family. And that was the arrow that drove a wedge between him and Harry, the fact that she's always been aware of something not quite right, of a secret being kept from her.

John hates himself sometimes when he thinks that part of Harry's alcohol addiction comes from her being forced to side with his father, because she couldn't cope with Jane Watson's disapproval of her and their secrets.

He wishes he could tell Harry now that their mum had never been disappointed by her being gay, she had just lamented the fact that one of her heirs capable of carrying on their line would never do so. By the time John had gotten old enough to approach his mother about changing her way with Harry before she would permanently drive her away, it had been too late and his father and his vices had sunk their claws deep into Harry like a wolf's through a hare's hide.

They'd never been in the same room together since, not even when Harold Watson had died.

Well, moving on. 

Nowadays, John rarely ever _truly_ loses his temper, despite Sherlock's continous attempts at driving him spare, the sod. It's crucial now, more than ever, that he remains unknown to the masses, especially the British government.

As it is, not a lot of people know that John is quite unlucky, and it's after one hard day at the clinic and then getting into a spat with Sherlock and storming off, that it happens. John fights it for as long as possible , but his careful control and the way they keep coming at him means he soon loses the fight, especially once he feels three almost simultanous stings in his neck and the numbing of his veins. His body falls dead and his last action is half a giggle at the tought they probably had enough substance in those to put down three elephants.

When he wakes up, he realizes he's never before had more need or had it been as crucial that he keeps his cool.

***

It's a standoff, John's blood is pumping in his veins, arms in a chokehold around Moriarty's neck, behind him. 

He's wound up tight, and he spares a second to think, at the back of his mind, that if he unclenched his teeth he'd snap. Sherlock is tense in front of him, gun trembling slightly, though not a lot. John spares another second to think he needs to teach Sherlock how to shoot and keep his cool better. But the younger man is determined and despite being afraid, and for once John can see that he is, he's very brave. He also saw the tiniest effect his actions and words had had on Sherlock, before the detective locked the bothersome _sentiment_ back down.

His brave boy, John really - no, now's not the time for that. Not conductive to keeping his cool.

And then it happens anway, because Moriarty laughs like the cowardly dog he is, and the red dot on _his_ Sherlock's forehead makes him see red, literally and figuratively.

It's always been ironic to John how a lot of the times, he's very calm when in the process of going nuts. The calm before the storm.

His arms release Moriarty's neck and he backs up a step, palms raised. His pulsing mind keeps on to the last dredges of consciousness before the rage drowns everythig and with a quiet shnick he cuts the wires, rendering the bomb useless. As he does so, a quiet vibration follows the dying sounds of Moriarty's laughter. It starts small in his chest before ending in that sort of wet growl that wolves let out right before killing their pray. 

It's a blur after, he's never been able to remember a lot once his wolf takes over, especially if he'd been really enraged. He does remember several bits though. Sherlock's stunned and incredulous face, the satisfying feeling of blood underneath his claws and being shot multiple times while ontop of Sherlock, gazing in his eyes. His film cut after that.

But, of course, weeks later once all the Moriarty business is over and done with, Mycroft personally delivers an unlabelled disk to them, a tight expression lingering still on his face.

Sherlock giggles darkly from where he's sat with his head in John's lap on the sofa. John smiles, fingers carding through Sherlock's hair as they both remember the day Sherlock and Mycroft met Jane Watson, the Alpha of the Watson pack.

John doesn't bother to get up to offer a cuppa since Mycroft leaves as soon as he places the disk on the coffee table, no words said. 

Later they'll both watch, to Sherlock's great satisfaction, pride, arousal and burning curiosity as John tears Moriarty to shreds. Much to John's embarassment. Okay, and dark satisfaction. His mouth pools with saliva when he remembers cutting into that snake's throat. 

The footage was captured by the cameras at the pool, and Mycroft had taken care to destroy them, especially after specfic instructions from Jane Watson. John's going to try to convince Sherlock to destroy this one too. But seeing Sherlock's smile die and shoulders tense up once the John onscreen slumps over on top of Sherlock, blood pooling everywhere, he thinks he won't need to do much convincing. 

He picks the remote up and turns the damn thing off, as he can't bear to feel, smell and see Sherlock's distress, or to hear Sherlock's desperate cries for him, onscreen.

His boy turns around quickly and smushes his face in his neck, arms tight around John's waist. John brings him as close as physically possible, all the while silently swearing he'll do a better job of protecting his partner, his _mate_ from now on. He dares anyone else to threaten Sherlock ever again. He's going to feast on their bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! :) First of all, just wanted to say thank you for all who read my story and take the time to leave a kudo or a comment - much appreciated! I have a hectic schedule, I work late almost everyday and sometimes during the weekend too, so not only do I have little time to write, I also have little time to write back in reply to your comments. So, just know that I really appreciate it and at some point I will reply. :)
> 
> Second, I've changed usernames. Used to be 'LadyOfTheWindDweller', I'm now 'rejectbaboon'. :) Don't ask why, but tell me, which one sounds more stupid? haha.


	6. Chapter 6

The day's been a total disaster just like John knew it would be. 

John hates Wednesdays as a rule, but that's been amplified today due to the date. Four years now and still he can't help the sickness in his stomach on 16th of January. He's been having flashes of blood running on the pavement and sightless eyes staring emptily into his soul all day, at the most inopportune moments.

Then, to make matters worse, of course there had to be a case, and a nine at that. Sherock's been a beast, focusing on the case with an intensity he's not seen in a while, and he knows that today's been affecting the detective as much as John. For that matter the doctor didn't chuck a sickie like he'd wanted to and went to work just to give them some space, but he didn't..couldn't have refused to accompany the detective on the case when a desperate Lestrade came running. Not today of all days.

The case had been gruelling, but despite how impossible it seemed to find the serial killer in time before the monster killed the latest child, Sherlock had done it. Everyday now John keeps expecting to stop being surprised by his own ability to love and be proud of Sherlock more and more, and it never stops.

But it's 3am now, and they're bone tired, all of them. There's too much ruckus, what with members of the yard running around shouting to each other, police lights flashing, the chatter of some stragglers attracted by the incident, the screams of the serial killer as he's being handcuffed and read his rights.

And then, there's Mycroft.

The older Holmes has been bothering them with his presence quite often lately. John had thought it better to stay out of it, but that had been two weeks ago. But judging by Sherlock's tense shoulders as he approaches from behind and the snippets of conversation he's just heard, he thinks it might be time to step in. 

' - stop acting like a child, it is time to grow up and face your responsibilities. You cannot continue living this farce of a life.' 

The elder Holmes brother's chin juts up, and his words and arrogant grimace make John's stomach tighten in fury. He steps forward all the way until he's shoulder to shoulder with the detective, on his left, and he's barely acknowledged by Mycroft but he feels it when Sherlock leanes into him just the tiniest bit.

' I can do whatever I please, Mycroft. You're not the boss of me. If you care about it so much why don't you take it for yourself. I have no care for being caged in that fancy prison, doing nothing and being bored for the rest of my life. Ha, I've no desire to become a shrew like mu-'

A sharp crack cuts through all the noise in the street, followed by Sherlock's surprised gasp. Mycroft's left his hair longer lately and it abandons it's normal state to fly into his face with the force of his momentum.

John feels like he's in a dream, he feels like he's been hit by that sort of slowness of moving and thinking you experience when dreaming, just before it suddenly gives way and you're speeding up or freefalling. It lets him go just in time to push Sherlock to the right and out of the way, and to catch the elder brother's right hand into a steel grasp.

What he'd just witnessed plus all the pain and nuisances of the day cause John to literally see red. His fist tightens around Myroft's hand until he can feel the bones grind together and then finally crack under the pressure and the man cries out, bending over in pain.

John's not aware of anything else other than the tosser in front of him, who'd been the cause of their pain more often than not. To John, it still feels like Mycroft was the one who fed Sherlock to that wolf, Moriarty. And here he is, on this blasted day, hurting Sherlock again and making John want to grind him to a pulp. He's often wanted to, and now he's finally snapped. So John's not aware of anything else, he;s not aware that everyone's stopped what they were doing to watch the going ons. Lestrade, who was already making his way over to them, runs over and makes to interfere but Sherlock, still cupping his red cheek, stops him with an arm.

'Now enough is enough. Listen here, Mycroft Holmes you _complete_ tosser. I've forgiven a lot of things but I've never forgotten them. All of this - ' John's voice is firm, calm but louder than life. He doesn't need to shout, everyeone's frozen. Even Anthea's watching on, unsure how to proceed. She'd normally have stepped forward, but the situation unfolding in front of her speaks of danger, abort..

' - all of this is your fault. All of today, hmm.' His fist never loosens it's grip.

'Today I've heard Sherlock's head crack on that pavement a thousand times, and I've been unable to look into his eyes for fear they wouldn't be looking back. And I've only been seeing red, and red and red. All, _fucking_ day. AND IT'S YOUR FAULT.' 

John's lost himself in his rage. He feels like his blood's boiling in his veins, and he wants to whip out his gun and pistol whip this insect of a man, but he remembers he can't in front of everyone. 

Mycroft's gasping, face in a grimace of pain, and his other leg gives until he's kneeling at John's feet, completely at his mercy, hanging by his hand in John's crushing grip.

'And you DARE to show your face, today of all days. And you dare to lay your filthy hand on Sherlock. You fucking cockroach, Mycroft Holmes, you listen to me and listen well. If you ever, and I mean EVER, raise your hand at your brother again, if you even _look_ at him wrong again.. I'm going to fuck up your life, you cunting piece of shit. I'm going to grind all those arrogant bones in your face to a pulp and take a picture afterwards.' 

He's gasping by the end of it. Shoulders bulging, chest puffing up with each breath which fails to fill his lungs and body with anything else but anger.

'Don't think your shitty position can cover your arse, Mycroft. I have friends in higher places if need be, and I assure you, I don't throw around empty threats. If I ever see you in our home again, I'm goin' to pound you like a fucking drum.'

And with that he steps back, spine ramrod straight as he does a military step around and makes the few feet to Sherlock's side, leaving Mycroft to fall to the floor with another pained cry.

He's not calmed down. His fingers twitch and rub together at his sides in that way they always do when he's spitting mad. Sherlock's face is indescribable. He's rarely seen it do whatever it's doing now. Sure, the younger man's always showed pleasure whenever John's defended him or put Mycroft in his place. But Sherlock looks shocked, grateful, guilty..the latter emotion's probably at John's earlier words about how he's been thinking of Reichenbach..

But his eyes are wet and luminous, and there's an unbearable warmth in them that makes John's heart hurt with love for this man. Without informing his brain, his hand makes its way to Sherlock's face, gently cupping his injured cheek. The detective's face leans into it, gaze never losing his.

He steps closer and murmurs softly, carefully tipping the younger man's face to the left.

'Let me see.'

'I..I'm fine John. That was...'

Sherlock breaks off, shaking his head. He purses his lips, bowing his head to the ground for a few, before looking back up at John. John knows, but he waits patiently.

'That was good..that was, John. _John_.' There's a desperation swirling in Sherlock's eyes and growing in his voice, and John's blood sings in his veins and they're almost touching from head to toe and he doesn't know when that happened. 

Lestrade clears his throat awkwardly, somehwere behind John.

'All right, gentlemen. I think it's best you two go home now. Uhm, I'll be coming around tomorrow or..or the day after, to take your statements but right now it's best you two go and wind down.' 

Not needing to be told twice, John takes Sherlock by the hand and drags him away, towards the main road to catch a cab. They don't look back once, and so they have no idea that Mycroft was loaded in the ambulance to be carted to the hospital along with the little girl Sherlocks saved, or that the yarders were still mostly stuck in place, gaping at John's back, or that they'd attracted a bigger crowd, some of which were filming the whole thing.

They only have eyes for each other, and only one thing on their mind. Catching the first cab home, to 221B, where John's going to undress Sherlock and proceed to make them both forget everything else but each other for some time.

But as they reach the main road, no cab in sight, Sherlock turns towards John, who looks questioningly up at him, and promptly bends down to clumsily smush their lips together. And John doesn't hesitate, his hands fist in Sherlock's hair, dragging him closer and tilting his head, and they kiss and kiss..and kiss; wet and warm and slick, with moans and _finally _, and **yes**.__

__Three cabs drive past, before one cabbie recognizes that lanky bloke he'd driven around a couple of times, and slows to a stop._ _

__'Oi, bruv. Want a lift? 221 somethin', innit?'_ _

__FIN_ _


	7. Chapter 7

The flat feels like it's exhaling in relief in the aftermath of their latest case. Solved of course. 

So too is Sherlock, tranquil and quiet as he stands by the sink to fill the kettle for some much needed tea. It's one of the only times the detective is known to brew it as he usually leaves the thankless task to poor John.

Socked feet quiet against the floor, John pads over and leans his body on the kicthen doorway, watching silently and intently. From top to bottom, Sherlock looks delectably decadent in his blue silk gown, the fabric tied off and hugging his shower damp body just so, driving John so mad he could JUST..

Over the steam from the kettle and the usual chemicals, he can just sense that heady scent of a freshly showered Sherlock, emanating from those damp, dark chocolate curls.

If the detective were to turn around, the doctor is sure his changeable eyes would sport his usual post case verdigris, a job well done. Lazy and sultry and coy, the hardest of Sherlock's looks for John, the one that tests his resolve in a maddening way and makes him usually vacate the room or rush upstairs for fear he'd break and kiss the mad bastard dead.

Tonight has been hard, cases involving kids are always the most difficcult. Hoggins, the serial kidnapper and murderer had been a beast of a man, and John shudders to think what wold have happened to Sherlock had John not been there. The thought makes his heart shrivel and drop to his stomach. How has it come to this, how has he let himself go in such a spectacularly fucking way he hasn't the faintest. He's never been so gone on someone before, never. And it's over a man, of all.

He swallows a lump in his throat as he puzzles over all of this, but his eyes are still stuck on the lithe form rumaging around in the cabinets overhead. White, elegant fingers pluck at the chocolate digestives.

He's been battling his sexuality from the first moment he laid eyes on this brilliant man, but the last couple of weeks especially have been tenuous. Days and nights consistent of swatting down thoghts of plump lips, electric eyes, milky white thighs under a revealing blue slik gown. Nights of turning over in bed, of swiping on Tinder in the hope of finding an acceptable date to continue a life that he knows is a facade. 

He now wonders what the point of it all is. No one can judge him and if they do, what does John Watson care.

Why should he when he's arse over kettle for the most incredible man he's ever met. This most singular being that manages to make him happy and sad and excited and bloody terrified and hungry for more, more, more, _everything_ on a daily basis. John was dead before and he only truly opened his eyes and tasted life on that fateful day at St. Barts. So who is he to deny himself, to deny _them_ this gift. Who cares if people talk, let them, they do little else after all.

Licking his lips, he siletly steps forward and feels his body go numb and tingly at the same time, like a limb you've sat on for too long. He can see his bright future stretch out in front of him, like the cheesiest romcom he's ever watched, but it doesn't matter anymore. 

Jumper clad arms stretch and clasp on the edge of the counter, caging a very startled detective in between. His hungry body hovers just a hair's breath away from those silky forms, just enough to tease them both, glutton for punishment that he is. His head moves like a lion scenting another, from a pink ear to a delightfully sharp jaw, to that inviting sweet mole on a pale long neck. Sherlock's breath is heavy and sweet, he smells like posh shower gel, tea and chocolate digestives. And a strong masculine musk that makes John's cock twitch and release precum.

\- Mhmmm, Jawn ?

Mmmeaow. 

God but he drives John mad, he's like a damned cat from the way he moves to the way he talks and purrs, for God's sake.

Growling, he steps forward to press his whole body to Sherlock's who moans and pushes back against him. Long fingered hands drop the cup of tea John forgot he was holding and they ignore it and don't care when it doesn't break as it splashes in the half full sink. Sherlock's hands fist on the edge of the counter just next to John's and he pushes back, drops down to push back and up, back and up on John's thin clad erection. He is maddening, he could devour him, John thinks.

\- This iss a surprisse. I susspected your ssexuality crisis to last _uh_ at least another week.. _ah_.

John smirks and continuing to move his hips he also brings his left hand up to fist in those devilishly soft curls. Sherlcok gives a guttural moan and laughs shakily when his head is pulled back, long neck stretched and there for John to finally kiss and ruin with his mouth. Travelling up to lick at his jaw, ignoring the brat's attempt to turn his head and capture his lips, John strecthes up on his tiptoes to mouth at and breath over that pink, delectable ear and to whisper..  
_  
\- Go to your room, get naked and turn your phone off. I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk and talk, and I'm going to kill whomever gets in the way._


	8. New Beginnings - Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Successful surgeon, eventual Sugar Daddy John. Takes a younger, drug addict Sherlock off the streets and nurses him back to health. They slowly develop a wonderful relationship, with its ups and downs and all sorts of conflicts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy ending guaranteed, will be very fluffy, will contain some angst. Will be posted in parts when I get inspiration. I noticed that if I try to create a full length story, I almost always give up - it's too daunting a project. So I decided I'm going to try to continue this trope, but I'll post it here in parts, in between other one-shots. That way it feels less like such a huge commitment. Once it's finished I'll copy all of it in one fic, I hope that's ok with you guys.
> 
> ALSO, A MASSIVE THANK YOU to all of you who have taken the time to comment and kudos my stories. I appreciate it so much, it means a lot to me. I'm sorry I'm unable to reply to each and every one of you because of my busy work schedule - but please know I appreciate you guys and it's your feedback that encourages me to write some more. 
> 
> P.S - I apologize for any spelling/grammar mistakes, English is not my first language and despite five years of speaking it every day, I find there's massive room for improvement. 
> 
> ALSO, I know some of you are waiting for some smut! I promise I will deliver, it's just that at the moment real life is hectic and I need time to site down and properly write a good sex scene - I'm obsessive about those, they need to be right so they take me a long time to write.

Surveying the room for an opportunity to somehow escape, John nods lazily, fingers gently tapping on the expensive tablecloth.

Maybe someone choked on their bread appetizer, or the chef's slashed his finger or seriously injured one of his waiters. Looking back at his companion, it looks like she is still taking about her cat.

Dear lord, she's now scrolling on her phone to show him pictures of Moon Moon, no doubt. 

He risks a glance at the sleek surface of his watch and has to stifle a sigh, another day wasted, another useless date - and tomorrow, he's back at St. Barts early morning for a major operation. 

Linda, Lisa? leans across the table and shoves her phone in his face. John flinches and covers up by gently plucking the phone only to stare numbly in the eyes of a demon tabby. He takes the opportunity to wonder whether he'd picked up his laundry already or if he needs to stop by on his way home. He muses, probably too late for that now.

" - but the vet said I seriously need to book an appointment! Poor Munchkins! John?," John realizes Lucy's, _Lindsey's_ tone has turned questioning so his eyes focus in and he hands the phone, who's display had turned black by now, back to her.

He clears his throat politely to interrupt what looks to be start of another monologue, meaning to excuse himself for the evening but a commotion to his left stalls him. They both turn their heads to watch.

Two young men that look to be in their twenties are up, facing each other. They couldn't look more different if they tried. One is clad in what John knows to be a very expensive suit, definitely in his own price range, while the other looks like he'd just been dragged out of a drug den in a South Estate in Brixton. The doctor in John can't help but focus in on the latter, and his mind files the facts away at the speed of light.

 _Gaunt face Pasty white but flushed complexion, moderately shaking_ , going through mild withdrawal, probably hasn't had his dose in at least a day.

The man looks very young despite the scraggly stubble going on his face. His clothes are dirty and much too layered and John wonders how come he's not been escorted off already, how come he'd been allowed in the restaurant in the first place. It might have something to do with the red haired gentleman currently pointing at him, face scrunched in disgust.

John cocks his head.

"I told you it's over, Sherlock." Says curtly the man in the suit. "I'm not funding your drug addiction anymore!." He clears his throat and straightens his shimmering coat.

The young man, _Sherlock_ scoffs and seems to ignore the gasps of their audience.

"As usual, I wonder why I ever bother to explain _anything_ ," Sherlock spits out, "to you idiots. I told you, I'm on a -"

The other man had seemed on the verge of losing his temper already, John noticed earlier, but the final straw seems to be the insult thrown at him in such an expensive environment. John only just realizes the man has a date when he places a hand on the back of her chair and leans closer, looming over the young drug addict.

They're close enough John can hear what is said - and most of the people in their vicinity can anyway, as they are all quiet, enthralled spectators.

"You're a disgrace, quit embarrassing me and my date and leave." John thinks that he sees a flicker of hurt Sherlock's face at this, so ex-lovers probably, and the drug addict seems to still carry a flame deep down, he muses. 

John's forgotten about his date completely. He thinks he feels a tug but he disregards it, completely tuned in on the developments to his left. He notices he's shifted his body forward, as if to intervene, although why he'd do that he has no idea. There's some instinct trying to tell him something, but he's too preoccupied to figure it out right now.

Interrupting the irate man, Sherlock snorts derisively and he cocks his head in a strange reptilian manner, to gaze at the date in question for only a fraction of a second. He looks at her from top to bottom so fast then takes a breath and straightens up. John looks on with baited breath, eyes flickering back and forth. 

The young man speaks all of this very fast with proper enunciation one is unlikely to hear from someone with his appearance. 

"Your _date_ , Victor, is already on her third this evening, seventh this week," the blonde-haired woman gasps, "and needs no help in embarrassing herself. Why, just this morning she took the tube back from her latest late night _conquest_ \- you can notice the stubble burn on her neck she's tried and _failed_ to cover with make up. At a closer glance you can notice her clothes are creased and her, quite large, slumped and spilling bag contains a tube bagel wrapper, her last night dress and her prey's wallet which she happened to _accidentally_ appropriate -, " 

John is so enthralled he misses the arm flying out to hit Sherlock in the face. He falls back with a cry, hand cupping his jaw and were it not for the pillar he happened to lean against he'd be toppled over on the ground. He leans down a bit, ruffling the potted plants surrounding the granite pillar.

Victor stalks forward, enraged and his arm readies to strike for a second time, but John's had quite enough.

There's something about this Sherlock character that intrigues him tremendously. John's not one to ignore his instincts and also, the doctor and soldier in him can't bear to see violence inflicted upon the helpless, impaired or young. This young man is a drug addict that much is certain, and yet to John's eyes, there are hidden depths to him and also a vulnerability he tries very hard to hide. It shouts at John and his protective instincts flare up and propel him out of his chair to grasp Victor's wrist just in time and twist just enough as to stop him but cause no damage.

Face squeezed in a pained grimace, Victor cries out, turning towards John. Everyone's eyes are by now on them, the whole restaurant is silent.

"I think that's quit enough, don't you think?". John smiles thinly at Victor and flicks his eyes Sherlock who's cupping his bloody nose, watching John with indecipherable eyes.

Victor's snatched his writs back by now and is rubbing it, hissing in pain. John takes a curt step back, positioning himself almost subconsciously in front of Sherlock.

"How dare you - who do yo think you are?" Victor's black eyes are filled with hatred as they run from him to Sherlock and back. 

John's had a long day, he's tired and finds this situation too ridiculous to entertain any longer. His back straightens out, his posture adopting his Captain persona and when he speaks his voice is smooth and low, polite and commanding.

"I said that's enough. Return to your table, I'll take it from here. Never touch this young man again."

Victor seems to be uncertain but after some tense moments he sits down and the dazed spell that had fallen across the venue breaks. The next couple of moments pass a blur, John leaves enough money to more than cover his and his date's checque, he excuses himself - her name is Linda after all, not Lucy - and before he knows it they are outside on the pavement.

The doctor inhales the crisp night air and for a moment ignores the young man, who's eyes he can feel on the side of his face. 

"That was unnecessary."

John turns his head. His baritone voice is like smooth, golden honey. If his eyes weren't so dilated, John thinks they could be green.

"Your bloody face says otherwise. As does your withdrawal by the way."

He wonders what's underneath all that layer of filth, and makes a sudden and reckless decision. His hand slides in his pocket to hunt for his car keys. Sherlock follows his motion, eyes lingering too long on his body, John notices with amusement and satisfaction. 

His modest Audi S8 winks and he makes over, speaking over his shoulder, "Get in the car."

He gets in , rolls down the window and leans over it to watch Sherlock. The young man's paused on the path watching him, head cocked. His fingers are trembling, his long lithe body almost swaying with the wind.

John beckons over with his head.

"You don't know what you're doing. You don't want me in your life, Doctor."

But John knows what he is doing. He was a young and reckless alcoholic when he himself was plucked off the streets and offered a chance. He cannot in good conscience leave this young man do overdose by himself in some mucky alley. His mind repels that thought, plus Mrs. Hudson would be very ashamed.

He shakes his head shortly, and continues to wait patiently. 

Sherlock takes a couple of hesitant steps, grimy face scrunched adorably. John can't help a fond smile. He's in trouble.

Sherlock blinks and seems startled at this, as if he can't imagine why in the world someone would smile at him. John's protective instincts rise again and his right hand tightens against the wheel to stop him from flying out the car to hug the young man. 

"You'll have to tell me how you knew I'm a Doctor. Come on now, I have surgery next morning."

The young man finally makes it around the car and steps in. John slides his window up to preserve some heat for the shivering figure next to him. 

He plucks the blue satin handkerchief out of his suit pocket and hands it to Sherlock, who takes it hesitantly and gently wipes at his nose. He ignores him when he hands it back. 

"Belt, please." Sherlock scoffs at this but does it up and they're soon off to Baker Street. They don't speak but it seems like they are communicating somehow. John's hormones are playing with him, he's feeling some deep sense of anticipation and he has a myriad of questions. But he knows he soon has to see to the young man. He needs a bath, he needs a thorough check up and help with his withdrawal.

Luckily Mrs. Hudson is home from visiting her sister in France, which means she might be persuaded to watch Sherlock tomorrow while he's at work. John shakes his head, smiling to himself as he waits for the lights to go green. Mrs. Hudson won't need any persuasion, she'll take one look at Sherlock and she'll start clucking around him like the mother hen she is.

They soon pull up in front of 221B Baker Street. John takes a moment to hunt for his wallet and phone before he steps out of the car, door gently clicking shut. Sherlock joins him as they step up to the door.

Once back from the army, when his surgeon career had properly taken off John had made a proposal to invest in 221 Baker Street, as a way to partially repay Mrs. Hudson for all she'd done for him. He managed to convince her after some effort, and now the house is state of the art and they have joint ownership. All the flats, including C are elegant but modest and he's also bought the properties adjacent and behind 221, so they are now connected and there's more space. 

Mrs. Hudson had been very enamored with the final finish and she's also the happy owner of Speedy's.

The house welcomes them in, and John turns to watch Sherlock take it in.


End file.
